


here to stay

by finalizer



Series: tales from the galaxy [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dysfunctional Family, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 04:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: Peter likes to think he knows Yondu pretty darn well by now. Of course, the universe takes that as a sign to drop  some truth bombs on him.





	here to stay

**Author's Note:**

> set right after the events of [burning bridges, and other quality pastimes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10896123) (doesn't exactly require reading but certainly helps a lot with context)

It wasn’t for another three months after the Ego incident that Peter saw Yondu again. It was easy to assume he’d outdone himself with the touchy-feely admission he’d let slip so openly, and was now lingering in the shadows, sulking, doing whatever it was he did to keep up his stone-cold reputation, like grilling small animals or robbing daycares. In all honesty, Peter had no idea what happened behind the proverbial closed doors of Yondu’s personal life, nor did he care. He’d stopped thinking roughly two months into getting hired, that it was odd how for someone who cared so much about every tiniest detail concerning what went on in the damned cafe, Yondu hardly ever physically set foot in the establishment. Frankly, because Peter didn’t _want_ to know.

Up until a twig-skinny individual with dangerous looking tattoos stepped inside one Thursday morning with a ratty leather sack thrown over his shoulder, and fixed Peter with a squinty glare from across the counter.

“What can I getcha?” Peter asked cheerfully, because it wasn't his place to assess and criticize customers’ fashion choices so long as they paid and politely refrained from causing bodily harm to their fellow clientele and Peter himself. 

The man licked his lips, still squinting, and scanned Peter’s face for _something_ , before loosening up and depositing his sack ‘o stuff on the floor. “Can I speak to the manager?”

Peter felt something tightening irrationally in his chest — he obviously wasn’t in trouble (yet) because he didn’t do anything wrong (yet). It was just the instinctual terror that came with people — soccer moms, usually — asking for the manager. In the past, he and Rocket had taken to convincing people Rocket was the manager, just so they could watch as enraged adults shrank away from a dirty-mouthed five foot nothing man-child with beady eyes.

This time: no such luck. Rocket was stuck in some linguistics course, scrounging up enough credit hours to pass the semester by the skin of his teeth.

“Boss isn’t here today,” Peter said, pursing his lips in an apologetic half smile. 

“Why ain’t he here?”

Peter shrugged. _Fuck if I know, pal._ “He doesn’t hang ‘round here much. But I can take a message, if you want,” he suggested instead, because the guy was downright shady and it was making him uncomfortable. 

The shady guy seemed to consider the proposition. “Nah, I just gotta let him know when the next shipment’s comin’ in — of the, um — ” he trailed off, looking at Peter like he’d said too much to the wrong person and was mentally backtracking at the speed of light. “Nev’r mind. I’ll look ‘round for him elsewhere.”

If Peter had a panic button on hand, he’d be smashing it like his life depended on it. But due to a distinct lack of one, he just nodded in casual agreement, and once more offered, “I can let him know you stopped by?” 

The guy grunted and leaned over to pick up his sack. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Alright, have a nice day,” Peter called after him; he figured if he was gonna get himself killed by a small, twitchy man with gang tattoos, it wasn’t going to be because his mama didn’t teach him proper manners.

He cleared his throat and smiled brightly at the next customer in line before he could overthink the situation and subsequently shit his pants.

Point being, it was at that exact moment in time that Peter began to wonder what really went on behind those closed doors, in between the screaming about stale coffee grounds and developing an inexplicable paternal instinct. For the first time in nigh on five years, Peter wanted to know what in the hell Yondu was hiding.

 

/

 

When the sun finally shone through the endless gray rain clouds that’d gloomified the city for continuous days, Peter took advantage of the warm weather and took his lunch (here meaning: a ziplock bag of dry corn flakes) outside, rather than squatting in the library during his free hour, listening to the agonized wails of failing students.

Coincidentally, Gamora had been of the same idea, sitting on the lawn on the far side of campus, her folded raincoat serving as a makeshift picnic blanket. Of course Peter noticed her, because he would know that hair anywhere. Then again, anyone would, as bright as it was, but Peter liked to think he was special — he wanted to shout from the rooftops, point to her and announce his girlfriend was the most beautiful person gracing the planet, who could kick his ass any day, and that made him the luckiest guy in the world.

He’d tried once, but Drax had stopped him before he could literally topple off the rooftop. And Gamora had yelled at him later too, which led to the realization that it hadn’t been the most ingenious idea to begin with.

Peter blinked a few times and approached her, spying Groot laying a few feet away, flat on the grass, head in the clouds.

“Good afternoon, madam,” he said, theatrically bowing down at Gamora, as she squinted up through the blinding rays of sunlight, “and plant,” he added, greeting Groot, who was wearing all green and none too subtly blending in with his background.

Gamora’s vaguely threatening expression mellowed out upon realizing it was just Peter, not another one of the myriads of freshmen thinking they stood a chance to score a date, let alone escape unscathed after calling her _baby_. “Hi.”

Peter dropped his backpack on the grass by Groot’s outstretched feet and plopped down, resting his head on Gamora’s lap. He appeared to have made a habit of such displays, showing the world and the vast galaxies beyond that he was the small spoon, and Gamora wore the pants in their relationship. God knew _he_ didn't — following the incident where he’d actually gone downstairs to pick up his pizza delivery in boxers alone.

Gamora’s question was to be expected: “Did you pass?” 

Because a positive score on his most recent exam was the condition for his continued existence, as far as his promises to Gamora went.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Peter.”

“Yes, I passed,” he insisted, when Gamora loomed down at him with a properly scary glare, “I swear.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her bloodthirsty intentions.

“Anyway,” Peter went on, shooting up from his laying position on account of his inability to sit still, “I have a bigger fish to fry.”

The metaphor was practically screaming for a familiar literal interpretation, but Drax was nowhere to be found, having disappeared off to one of his many extracurricular wrestling courses. At least he was putting all that body mass to good use.

“What kind of fish?” Groot chimed in, muffled by the foliage.

Peter clicked his tongue, Gamora watching him intently. “I think Yondu is running some sort of illicit underground drug operation, and is using the cafe as a front for his side business.”

“That’s certainly a big fish,” Groot said absently.

Gamora was stunned speechless (well, _almost_ , because she’d headed the debate team all through high school and speechless simply wasn’t part of her vocabulary). “On what grounds?”

Luckily, Peter had things all figured out. “See, this guy comes in yesterday, and he looks like the sort of guy you’d see on poorly lit street corners on the wrong side of town, and he asks for Yondu. Yondu’s not there, ‘cause he never is, so I tell the guy just that; I ask if he wants me to pass something along. And he goes on to mention some honest-to-god evil sounding _shipment_ , and it’s all so shifty that my hand’s itching to call the cops. I hardly slept last night ‘cause I’ve been thinking — what if Yondu is an actual, real-life drug lord?”

If the dictionary had photo entries, Gamora’s expression would be plastered under the word _unimpressed_. “Peter, did you consider that this could’ve been some junkie looking to cause trouble, or a simple case of he got the wrong address? Or a _prank?_ Or maybe, god forbid, you misinterpreted a wholly innocent situation and blew it out of proportion.”

Peter opened and closed his mouth. Now, Gamora had a point, which made sense, what with her beautiful big brain, and Peter was slowly realizing he sounded as paranoid as his friends had back when they were still insisting Ego was evil. Then again, Ego _had_ actually turned out to be evil, so — 

His thought process was cut short by the ominous clatter of metal on concrete, as a speedily approaching Rocket lost control of his skateboard and nearly flipped over the curb on his way to meet them. He let loose a creative string of curses in Spanish and kicked the skateboard onto the grass like it’d offended his mother. 

“What’s the matter? What’d I miss?” he asked in lieu of _hello. “_ Yous look more glum than Groot when his ma told him the cat ate the goldfish.”

Groot lifted his head off the grass. “Why would you bring that up?”

He dropped his head back down and closed his eyes. “Peter thinks Yondu’s an undercover drug smuggler.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Rocket grinned, and sat. “Gimme them details.”

 

/

 

Mantis was busy excelling at her job when Drax walked in, visibly concerned. She thought, if there were things out there that had the human boulder frightened, the planet was as good as done for.

“Hello,” he said, and she mirrored the greeting.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I am — concerned,” Drax said instead, confirming her suspicions that he was, in fact, concerned. 

Mantis wrung her hands together, picking at her nails like she tended to do. “What about?”

“Quill let me know that there is reason for concern. Have you, perhaps, seen any unsavory, suspicious looking men lurking about? Clothed in dark leathers and dangerous tattoos?”

“What the _hell_ , man,” came a reply, though distinctly masculine, and un-Mantis-like. Peter emerged from inside the employees’ closet holding a can of Red Bull. “Hey, Drax, how are you? Also, please don’t scare away the only promising barista this place has ever had, thanks.”

Mantis beamed.

“I was unaware you’d be here,” Drax said, sniffling in something akin to distaste. 

Peter shrugged theatrically. “Sorry, man. I work here.”

Mantis turned to him, voice small but surprisingly unwavering. “Is there really men in dark leathers watching us?”

Drax frowned, zeroing in on Peter with a glare, like he now expected he’d been lied to about the whole shady business situation. 

“No — _no_ ,” Peter assured Mantis, then shot a look at Drax. “I mean, it’s just my paranoia, but this one weird guy did come in a few days back. Gamora said I’m being dumb, though, so I trust her. Well, and Ronan came in this morning, but he hasn’t actively tried to destroy any of us in years, so I don’t think he’s part of the problem.”

“He’s always part of the problem,” Drax decided, and turned to go. 

Peter wasn’t too stupid to put the pieces together — Drax shows up to talk to Mantis, Peter interrupts, Drax leaves. It was pretty evident the crush hadn’t gone anywhere, despite Mantis having turned him down. Either that, or they were good friends now and Peter simply hadn’t noticed; in which case he decided he ought to pay more attention to his friends. Though, even on the best of days, it was hard to decipher what Drax was thinking.

“Should we be worried about the creepy man?”

Peter’s arms were still crossed, and brow still furrowed in thought, as he was pulled out of his daily zone-out moment.

“Absolutely not. The guy had business with Yondu. A friend of his maybe.”

Which didn’t bode well either, if those were the sort of friends the man collected. But so long as all of Peter’s limbs were still attached, and the cafe still standing to provide him with a somewhat decent steady income, he wasn’t complaining.

 

/

 

The stuff about a drug smuggling hick running a midtown cafe made for a funny story, but Rocket didn’t buy a single word of it. It was plausible enough that Peter, running on an unhealthy lack of sleep and too many energy drinks, had, in his tired haze, completely imagined the shady individual.

That, and Rocket tried to oppose Peter whenever possible for the sheer fun of it. The guy was funny when he got all riled up.

Which made it all the more surprising, when a vaguely familiar burly man, who looked like he listened to heavy metal for a living, barged inside and nearly took down two tables and a chair on his way to the counter.

“Boss here?” he demanded.

Rocket blinked, and then it clicked. “Taser-Face! You’re that guy with the birthday cake. I remember you.”

“Boss here?” Taser-Face repeated impatiently. He was looking at Rocket like he was something to smash under a giant rock.

“No, boss ain’t here. You do mean Yondu, right?” Rocket asked to make sure, then decided to play along with Peter’s tale. “Yous the second guy to come lookin’ for him. It’s like we told the skinny fella: boss doesn't come ‘round these parts that often.”

Taser-Face downright growled in the back of his throat, continuing to glower at Rocket. 

“Hmpf. Kraglin don’t do nothin’ right. Had t’check for myself.”

Rocket muffled a snicker with a cough, and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who names you guys?”

It turned out Taser-Face didn’t share the same sense of humor. “Is something funny, little man?”

“No, sir, of course not, sir,” Rocket snapped back, throwing his palm up in a sarcastic salute. “Can I take a message for you, sir?”

He didn’t get an answer, just another burning glare as the man in question turned and stalked away in his stomping-rampage manner of walking. 

Rocket had no sense of self-preservation, nor any inhibitions, and called after him: “Okay, then. I most certainly will not be telling boss that _Taser-Face_ was askin’ after him.”

It was as close as it came to a miracle that Rocket had survived as long as he had with his particular personality. 

He motioned Carina over to the counter and told her to man the ship until he came back; after which he dug his phone out of his apron pocket and scurried inside the employees’ closet to contact some folks concerning some stuff.

First, a text to Groot:

**_to_ ** _: Groot [11:12 AM]_

_*old man emoji* *skull emoji* *bomb emoji* *green checkmark emoji*_

then a dire, life-or-death call:

“ _Yello_?” Peter answered. 

“Taser-Face just showed up,” Rocket told him, right off the bat.

The line was silent for a few seconds, and Rocket pulled the phone away from his ear to double check the call was ongoing. 

“ _Oh. Cake guy. Big, scary_?”

“That’s the one. Yeah, he showed up lookin’ for Yondu, and I made some polite small talk and found out he knows the other guy. The little one. And here I was thinkin’ you made him up.”

“ _I did not_.”

“Well, I know that _now_ ,” Rocket sighed. “So, he comes ‘round lookin’ for Yondu, calls him _Boss_ with a capital B, and I’m standing there like a dumbass realizin’ you mighta been right about the whole thing.”

“ _See?_ ” Peter said, voice far too excited for someone who’d just found out his sort-of-newfound-father-figure might be dealing drugs on the side. “ _Oh, shit. Tell me you didn’t antagonize the guy._ ”

“Who, Taser-Face? C’mon, Quill, his name is _Taser-Face_.”

Peter groaned. “ _And you will respect that about him, because he’s obviously in a gang, and probably packing under all that leather_. _Is he still there?_ ”

“Told him boss ain’t here and he left. What do we do about this, Quill?”

“ _Wha — is there even anything we can do?_ ”

Rocket drooped his head forward in exasperation and hit the wall in front of him with a dull thunk. He took it like a man. He’d put ice on it and whine to Groot later at home. 

“Quill, I know ya ain’t the smartest one of our bunch, so imma spell it out to you slowly: you and Yondu are best pals now, remember? Use that and scope out the situation.”

“ _I haven’t seen him for months. And it’s not like I can call him — he only calls when he needs shit from me, or to yell at me, and it’s always a different number — oh,_ fuck _. Oh my_ god _, he’s actually a drug dealer. Rocket, what do we do?_ ”

 

/

 

While the situation at hand would typically call for a nice, honest intervention, the key culprit and guest of honor for said intervention just so happened to be a ghost: no known number or place of residence, no next of kin, no contact information whatsoever. 

And Peter would know — having checked his original work contract for any sign or hint. It was a real eye-opener, too, realizing how dumb he must’ve been in the first place to sign himself over to someone so shady and anonymous, and then to continue working for said person for the next five years without question.

Thus, the intervention was lacking in participants.

The five of them, however, with Peter and Rocket still donned in their uniforms with no one watching the counter, were crammed into one of the booths, paying zero attention to the fact that there was work to be done. Thankfully, the place was dead at this time of day, and the rumor mill was thriving.

“Any of you how to hack shit?” Rocket asked, because they’d run out of reasonable suggestions ten minutes ago. “We could run him through the police database. If he’s runnin’ a gang here, he’s gotta have priors.”

“No one’s breaking the law, Rocket,” Gamora sighed. She wasn’t too invested in the _predicament_ and the related scheming, but even she had to admit there were some solid arguments to support the ridiculous theory. “Nothing’s happened yet. There’s no reason to worry as of right now.”

“See, you say _yet_ , like you wanna wait for somethin’ to happen.”

She rolled her eyes at Rocket. “Nothing will happen. We wait for Yondu to contact Peter first, and when he does, Peter mentions the guys that came by, asking around. From there, we gauge Yondu’s reaction.”

Rocket pouted as Groot nodded in agreement. “Where’s the fun in that? How ‘bout we get his info, break into his place, and find enough evidence to lock him up for life?”

“Where’s the fun in getting arrested?” Gamora retorted.

“Yeah, yeah, just ‘cause you’re a right goody two shoes don’t mean the rest of us wanna wait for the big bad man to make the first move. Jeez, think about it: if he’s runnin’ a crime syndicate, he’s gonna know how to lie good enough. _Gauge his reaction_ , my ass.”

As if on cue, the phone rang, the high pitched jingle echoing throughout the room. Everyone froze in various states of wide eyes and gaping mouths.

Rocket sniggered. “Ha. There’s your chance to find out.”

Gamora looked from him to Peter, who’d at some point zoned out (typical), and elbowed him in the ribs. “ _Peter_. Phone.”

It was wishful thinking, that the caller on the other end would be the big boss himself, rather than a demanding mother desiring to order a basketball shaped cake for her little boy’s birthday party, but Peter still tripped on his way to the counter, worrying his palms with his fingernails. It pretty much sucked to have Yondu lay some sort of parental claim on you, he decided, because then everyone seemed to deem you the go-to guy for situations like these.

“You’ve reached the Galaxy. Peter Quill here,” he said into the receiver.

There was a collective intake of breath intense enough for the very matter of the universe to shudder, and then all hell broke loose.

The screaming on the other end was audible enough for his friends in the booth across the room to hear and Peter winced at the volume and crudeness of each and every word. He shot a _look_ at them, most of whom were waving their hands and motioning for Peter to confront Yondu over the phone like some sort of maniac with a death wish.

“Sorry,” Peter managed, when the hollering died down a notch, and he could finally get a word in. “We just — school project. There’s no one around so we thought we could — yeah, okay. What mess? That’s _one_ mug — ”

The angered yelling started back up, and Peter had to hold the phone an arms length away from his ear, as per usual when it came to Yondu’s friendly calls. He pointedly ignored Rocket seizing across the room, motioning for Peter to ask about the shady fellas.

Peter figured Yondu was making up for being so nice by being very mean. 

“Of course. Yeah, we’ll get back to work. Sorry.”

The line went dead with the ominous buzz of the dial tone, and Peter hung up the receiver.

“What the _fuck_ , Quill?”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Peter whisper-yelled, whirling around to address Rocket over the counter. “I didn’t feel comfortable asking my boss about his _drug smuggling side job_ over the phone when he’s already pissed and threatening to rip my head off. Or ever, for that matter. Ask him yourself.”

The lone customer inside the cafe visibly blanched at the implication, paling so drastically his red hair practically glowed in comparison. He went back to his black coffee and newspaper in awkward silence.

“You just ruined our only shot at uncovering the truth,” Drax complained, and Groot once more nodded in agreement. 

Peter made eye contact with Gamora, as if expecting some constructive criticism on her end, too. 

“Don’t look at me, Peter. As of right now, I’m un-involving myself from this circus.”

Rocket dropped his head into his hands, his untamable hair flailing about like an old mop. When he looked up, he dragged his palms over his eyes, staring into Gamora’s face like he could hypnotize her into believing the facts.

“Think about it. He’s obviously violent and to no small degree psychotic. He keeps this place runnin’ though it’s dead most times of day. He goes on more vacations than any other middle class goon I’ve seen, half of them on fancy boats to the Caribbean, and you can practically hear the swarms of hookers in the background like he’s drippin’ money. He has shady friends that talk of unsavory business, and he wears more leather than any regular guy in his fifties. So, he’s either a mob boss, or an out of work ex-reality star tryna compensate for somethin’.”

Gamora sighed deeply, her bones practically rattling with the exhaustion of hearing the same crap on repeat like a broken record. And as someone dating Peter Quill, she had plenty of experience with broken records, both literally and figuratively.

“Or he’s just a clever man with a good budget and bad taste in friends,” she countered, pocketing her phone and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you boys later, if you don’t collapse of self-inflicted heartburn first. Peter,” she added, as both a farewell and a warning, looking gravely at the barista in question, then departing without another word.

“We’re doomed,” Rocket announced loudly.

Groot nodded in agreement.

 

/

 

There was nothing quite as surreal as imagining the weirdest scenario that came to mind, and having it unfold before your very eyes.

Peter was watching infomercials in his cramped excuse for a living room, while Gamora was off making tea in the kitchen with her hair up in a post-shower towel. Yes, they’d taken that shower together, and no, Peter wasn’t incapable of making his own tea, just that he’d mixed up the salt and sugar last time around and ended up doing a spit take all over Gamora’s shirt. She wasn’t taking any more risks.

“Are you trying to decrease your brain activity?” Gamora asked, referencing the aforementioned infomercials.

Peter grumbled something under his breath. “They were talking about my — about Ego — on the news again. Not really in the mood for that now, or ever.”

“How are the lawsuits coming along?”

“I just said I don’t wanna — ”

Gamora poked her head out from behind the thin wall separating the kitchenette and living room. “Suppressing your feelings leads to emotional damage. As the key expert on that, you should know better.”

“Just because I never went to therapy, doesn’t mean my messed up situation with my messed up father is going to affect me for the rest of my life.”

Gamora emerged with a mug in each hand. “I never said therapy. Your friends are here to listen. _I’m_ here to listen.”

“Fine. I appreciate that. But not now. Not yet.”

Gamora sat beside him on the ratty sofa, reclining into the cushions and propping her feet up on Peter’s lap. “As you wish, Star Lord,” she quipped, referencing the infamous incident where Peter had gotten too drunk to make use of his brain to mouth filter, and had announced his killer dance moves would be a hit in the stripping industry, and his stage name would be _The Amazing Star Lord_.

Naturally, his friends refused to let that one go.

Gamora snatched the remote from the coffee table before Peter could react and object, surfing through the channels before settling on a late night screening of Mary Poppins.

“Besides,” Peter said, changing the uncomfortable topic, “there’s more important matters. After you left, Rocket almost bludgeoned me with the mop bucket when I said he’s on his own with the mob conspiracy.”

Gamora quirked an eyebrow. “You’re saying _you’re_ done?”

“I — ” he faltered, unsure. “Listen, I know the evidence is damning and all, but I find it hard to believe Yondu’d be capable of something like that while simultaneously being soft and squishy on the inside.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Gamora said. “Keep in mind, though, none of us have that insight. It was just you and him when the — _squishiness_ occurred.”

Peter quirked his head to the side in consideration.

Now, the universe had an awful knack for knocking Peter on his ass when he least expected it — lining the worst exams up back to back on days preceding double shifts, the salt/sugar tea incident, or even the time Ronan had punched him in the face midway through senior prom and landed them both in detention just as Peter was about to get the girl.

That wasn’t to say the universe didn’t have its moments, nudging eerily convenient coincidences Peter’s way as well.

And thus, the weirdest scenario Peter could imagine unfolded just like that: him and Gamora sitting side by side chatting idly, partly paying attention to the television screen, sipping at their respective teas. Then the doorbell rang.

Gamora thumbed her phone, checking the time. 

“Did Groot leave his flashcards lying around somewhere again?”

Peter was equally surprised, but got up to head to the door regardless. “Unlikely. I told him to stop bringing them here ‘cause his systemic studying methods were stressing me out.”

He unhooked the chain and pulled the door open, and was suddenly very grateful he hadn’t been holding anything breakable. 

On the other side of the threshold stood Yondu, as smug and angry-looking as ever. 

Peter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Mind if I invite myself in?” Yondu asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed past a properly flabbergasted Peter and waltzed into the living room to face an equally unsuspecting Gamora.

“Evenin’,” he offered, because the lady deserved the best his manners had to offer. 

Eventually, Peter shut the door and flipped the lock, turning around and haphazardly stumbling back towards the couch. Yondu was watching the TV screen with an odd fondness, and Gamora was watching Yondu with no small amount of distrust. She was just thankful she’d thrown on a robe before heading out of the bathroom, unlike Peter, who now stood in full view of his boss/potential drug lord in his boxers.

“What do you want?”

Yondu asked, “Mind if I sit?” 

Peter motioned to the couch. “Ts’not like me saying _no_ would stop you.”

Yondu sat, and after a moment, Peter did too, settling in between him and Gamora, who’d rearranged herself from her previous sprawl. It was a tight fit nonetheless.

After what felt like a century of silence, Yondu got to the point. “Ya know, Quill, y’all act like yer so smart ’n all, but not a single of ya considered the security feed transmits audio.”

Yet again, Peter was thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t been holding his scalding mug. Instead, he sputtered on nothing but air.

Gamora’s eyes went wide, lips quirking up in the universal expression signaling shit was about to go down, and she was going to be the lucky front row spectator. Unless Peter got murdered, in which case, not so lucky.

The half naked individual in question tried to play it cool. “Um — hmm. To — whom. What’re — what’re you referring to?”

As expected, Yondu was in a no-bullshit mood. “Y’all’re under the impression that me an’ my boys are runnin’ a drug business through the establishment, and the angry ‘lil one also seems to be implyin’ I’m your daddy.”

Peter cocked his head. “I mean, you did — ”

“I ain’t your daddy, boy.”

“Look,” Peter said, twisting around to better face Yondu, however difficult the limited couch space made the maneuver. Gamora was in no hurry to leave, nursing her tea and watching the exchange with apt interest. “These two scary dudes came in lookin’ for you a while back, and then all the pieces just fell into place. I mean, _hell_ , you’re wearing a Rolex. You must be packin’ serious funds.”

Yondu glanced down at his own wrist. “T’was a gift.”

Peter groaned. “You get what I’m sayin’ though? Galaxy stays open with minimal customer traffic, those guys come in talkin’ ‘bout some shipments, and — the security level is off the charts. What kinda cafe needs that? Rocket and — all of us, really — but mostly Rocket, thought you were runnin’ some sort of gang, you and those guys.”

Yondu shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Sure we are. Those’re my old pals from when we was your age. Used to think we were badass, goin’ ‘round town on our bikes. Now they’re helpin’ me out with the business.”

Gamora was growing increasingly satisfied, watching Peter’s absurd conspiracy theory fall apart in shreds.

“You mean, the shipments?”

Yondu was beyond done. “Someone’s gotta handle inventory, kid. Hell knows you ain’t gonna do it.”

Peter was doing the mental math, trying to fit the newfound facts into the empty slots. Then there came the impossible task of deciphering whether or not Yondu was telling the truth to begin with. 

“Right,” Peter said emptily, staring out onto the floor. “And the money? How do you keep the place open?”

“I go out of my way to help y’out, boy, and this is the thanks I get — an interrogation.” With a scoff of disbelief, he poked a finger at Peter’s forgotten mug on the coffee table. “This yours?”

Peter nodded and Yondu snatched it up and took a sip, like he deserved a goddamn prize for putting up with Peter’s questionable antics. 

“That’s good,” he declared, looking over at Gamora, as if some sixth sense had conveyed to him exactly who’d made the tea. “Your girlie’s better than all y’all combined, Quill. Hell, if I _were_ yer old man I’d dare say you don’t deserve her.”

Gamora bit her lip to contain a smile. “He doesn’t,” she confirmed. “But he tries.”

Yondu let out a snort of a laugh, motioning at her with his free hand and a crooked, satisfied smirk on his face, conveying the wordless sentiment: he liked her. Which was a blessing — one’s father (or pseudo adopted father figure) approving of their significant other.

At the moment, however, Peter couldn’t be bothered. “The money, Yondu, explain that.”

“Hell, boy, you're givin’ me a headache. Looky here — the boys ’n I have been doin’ this since before you was in diapers, so the cash adds up after a while. B’sides, this ain’t the only joint we got runnin’ — my pal Stakar’s got that place down by town hall, ’n so on. It’s a sorta — whatchacallit — _chain_. If ya weren’t shit at math, you’d be doin’ my financials already, and ya’d know.”

“How do you know he’s bad at math?” Gamora chimed in, leeching onto the vague part of the explanation that would’ve omitted Peter entirely.

There was a pause. “I done seen some of his report cards back in the day,” Yondu told her, trying and failing to play it off as nonchalant as possible. Peter was too busy rolling over the minutia of the explanation in the back of his mind to notice the implication.

Gamora raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Wow, you so _are_ his dad.”

Peter choked.

Yondu nearly sloshed the hot contents of the mug he was holding all over Peter’s bare chest.

“Girlie, I ain’t — ”

Peter interrupted. “I mean, you did sign off as my legal guardian when I needed adult supervision on my learners’ permit. Taught me t’drive and all.”

“What kinda man don’ know how to drive?”

Yondu was growing increasingly defensive, and with Gamora joining in on the fun, Peter’s supply of courage leveled up. 

“What kinda man hires a kid to make coffee and signs adoption papers the next day?”

Yondu set the mug down loud enough to snap Peter out of it, barely refraining from slamming it hard enough for the coffee table to crack in two. 

“I take it back,” he announced, looking past Peter at a humored Gamora, “yer as bad as the rest of ‘em.”

“I try my best."

Yondu tried even harder to look angry, because he really _did_ like the girl, and he had a soft spot a mile wide for Peter, but he had personal standards and a dangerous reputation to live up to, and would not stand for jokes cracked at his expense.

“Unpaid overtime for a week, Quill. That’s whatcha get for disrespectin’ your boss.” 

Yondu was halfway to the door when Peter’s laughter subsided to a minimum, enough for him to scramble to his feet in a highly undignified manner. He was, after all, in his boxers.

“Hold on, old man. Why’re you here? What did you want?”

Yondu stopped and turned, huffed a laugh like he’d been waiting to hear that very question. Peter was suddenly concerned, what with the distinct malicious glint in Yondu’s eyes. The grin really did verge on psychotic. 

“That pal ‘o yours, the little one, oughta be taught a lesson in mindin’ his own business.”

Peter was suddenly very intrigued. “Go on.”

“I gotta little proposal for ya.”

“ _Go on._ ”

“I’ll put the details together with my boys ’n get back to ya. Key is, Quill, ya gotta play along like ya mean it.”

Peter snapped his hand up in a salute, which looked downright embarrassing given his clothing-less situation. Presented with the opportunity to rip Rocket a new one, it didn’t really matter whether he was head to toe in clothes or naked entirely. 

“Wait for my call.”

He was out the door and halfway down the corridor when Peter remembered the single promise he’d made to himself not too long ago.

“ _Hey, wait!_ ” he hollered, and took off in a sprint, undressed state and all, down the hall. 

He jogged over and didn’t stop until he was an inch away from a frowning, confused Yondu, then plastered himself against the man and squeezed him in a proper bear hug. 

As expected, the reaction was immediate. “Gerroff me, boy, you’re all sweaty — ”

“I never said thank you, for what you did last time,” Peter muttered, still squeezing.

“Sentiment’ll get ya killed out there,” Yondu snapped back, albeit dejectedly, because Peter’s youthful strength surpassed his own, and there was no was no way to untangle himself from the lanky limbs.

When Peter finally let go, grinning in a way that was genuinely too wholesome to look at, Yondu took a step back, pointing a threatening finger between Peter’s eyes. 

“Dontchu do that agin, son.”

Peter kept smiling.

“Not if ya wanna keep your job, at least.”

Peter appeared to be in the sort of mood that nothing could bring down, not even threats of bodily harm and potential homelessness. 

Yondu had grumbled something under his breath and turned to leave again by the time Peter worked up the nerve to put the final nail in the coffin.

“Later, dad,” he called, and flashed a shit-eating grin at Yondu’s outraged swivel in his direction. 

“Don’t test me, boy.”

Peter waved and watched Yondu attempt to cover his smirk with a twisted snarl. He was a pretty okay makeshift dad, all things considered.

Especially in terms of pulling magnificent pranks.

 

/

 

“Listen, Quill,” Rocket was saying. “So, this honest to god _golden_ car pulls up, and the lady’s wearin’ a yellow dress, and she got this shiny blonde hair, and even her dang phone case is gold. Like a frickin’ Oscar statue.”

Peter snorted. “This the, uh, Sovereign’s order?”

“Yeah,” Rocket laughed, leaning over the counter. “ _Golden_ glazed donuts. Flat out gold fetish, I tell ya.”

Gamora watched from one of the tables, sitting with both Groot and Drax, sharing a platter full of freshly baked cinnamon rolls that didn’t quite fit in the display window. Peter was off wiping down the booths, getting ready for 8 AM. 

Though it was ass o’clock in the morning, everyone could be bought into visiting bright and early with the promise of cinnamon rolls, which was precisely the reason Peter ordered too many — so he wouldn’t be alone with Rocket for too long before opening.

Ever since Mantis and Carina teamed up for the afternoon shifts, the two of them had been cursed to co-exist even before their first cup of joe.

Rocket continued his thrilling tale: “Right, so she walks in and says —”

It was then that the jingle of the front door bells rang out (a door that Rocket could’ve sworn was still locked), and an unsavory bunch of gentlemen walked inside, led by the legendary Taser-Face himself.

“Which one of you’s Peter Quill?”

Peter froze, sponge in hand. Rocket squeaked.

Drax licked the cream frosting off his finger and pointed at Peter. “That’s him,” he announced, as if the obvious danger of the situation hadn’t even occurred to him.

Instantly, the gang, well, _ganged_ up on Peter, who dropped the sponge onto the floor in surprise — it landed with a pathetic squelch, which pretty much summed up how Peter was feeling given the circumstances.

“Guys, I — what is this?”

The long-haired grinning one behind Taser-Face spoke with an unnerving lilt, “We been sent to teach some’n a lesson. Looks like you’re the star pupil.”

“Hey. Hey, _wait_. Look, I didn’t do anything. What the hell is this about?”

The panic was rising in Peter’s tone, and Rocket looked over at the rest of his friends in a desperate _What The Fuck Do We Do?_ sort of way. Gamora’s jaw was tight. Even she knew they stood no chance against the intruders. Well, Drax was a potential candidate, but seeing as no one was pummeling Peter’s face into the hardwood yet, he was content with eating another cinnamon roll.

“Boss says you think yer funny,” Taser-Face spat, baring his extremely unhygienic-looking teeth. “He thinks you forgot where yer place is here. That true, pretty boy? You think yer in charge?”

Peter was white as a sheet, dancing out of the way as the long haired one tried to make a grab at him. “Is this about the gang thing? That — hey, c’mon, that was a joke. I’m sure Yondu knows that. If I could just talk to him — ”

“Ain’t gon be no talkin’ today, Quill,” Kraglin said from the back, where he was leaning against the table closest to the exit. He’d locked the door after the intrusion, making sure the sign was flipped to _closed_. “If we don’t teach you how’t behave, yer never gonna learn.”

Taser-Face grabbed at the lapel of Peter’s flannel, shoving him until his back hit the squeaky leather of one of the booths. “And ya innit gonna learn unless we teach ya the hard way.”

The sick crack of the punch resounded through the room, Peter falling back onto the seat. 

Groot shrank back as Gamora sprang up from her seat with a concerned cry of Peter’s name, Drax following suit, cinnamon rolls all but forgotten.

The men unoccupied with pulling Peter up for a second blow took a step towards them, effectively blocking any path they had at an attempted rescue. Not, of course, that they stood a chance — a couple of kids against a legitimate biker gang tilted the odds a hundred to none.

Rocket was holding on to the counter with white-knuckled fingers, looking downright nauseous at the display.

“That’ll teach ya to hold back on the funny business,” Taser-Face snarled, swinging his fist back to punch into Peter’s gut.

Before he could, Rocket snapped.

“ _Wait_.” His voice was wavering. “C’mon, don’t — he didn’t do nothin’. It was my idea, leave him alone.”

Kraglin was picking at his teeth, quite carefree in the face of beating up children. “Boss said Quill. Who’re you?”

Rocket relinquished his grip on the counter, glancing at the purpling bruise developing beneath Peter’s left eye as he struggled to sit up, and balled his hands into fists at his sides.

“C’mon, take me to Yondu, we’ll talk, I’ll explain. Quill ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

Snarky laughter bubbled up from some of the men. As if begging was going to stop direct orders and greedy fists.

“That’s cute, little guy, very cute.”

Taser-Face swung back again, and Rocket once more paused him mid-punch. He wasn’t all too keen on getting murdered before eight in the morning, but he couldn’t idly stand by and watch Peter take his place.

“ _Please_. C’mon, leave him alone. He ain’t done — it was _me_. I was out of line. Please.”

This time, a bout of gleeful laughter broke out, but it wasn’t from any of the gathered men, nor Peter himself. 

Yondu materialized from the shadows, getting up from his seat in the furthest booth, which Rocket could have sworn on Groot’s life had been unoccupied until this moment. Curse the back door.

He was rubbing his hands together malignantly, obviously thrilled at the distress he was causing.

“Lookit that, boys. Look at him _beg_.”

Rambunctious cackles broke out from the men then, jeering at Rocket with outstretched fingers. 

When the ruckus died down, Yondu schooled his expression into the steeliest glare he could muster, and looked Rocket right in the eye. “That’ll teach ya to meddle, kid.”

It took a moment for Rocket to register the words. “ — _Me?_ But they said — ”

He looked over at Peter, who was apparently desperate to suppress a fit of laughter behind his hand.

Rocket was at a loss. “You — _you_ were in on this? You _let_ him hit you?”

Taser-Face snarled. “Ain’t even done it that hard. Boss said I couldn’t.”

“You _let_ him hit you?” Rocket echoed.

Peter shrugged. “Part of the plan, man, it made for a good show. Besides, Yondu’s payin’ me good money to wear this shiner, so it evens out.”

Rocket gaped. “The — _plan?”_

He turned desperately to Groot, who was hiding his smile in Gamora’s shoulder. She, in turn, was as smug as ever. 

Drax, the least delicate of the bunch, pointed a finger straight at Rocket’s wide eyes and hollered, _“You should have seen your face! Ha!”_

A beat passed, then another, and the words and moments pieced themselves together in a patchwork of a plan. He looked at Peter, then back at his friends. “You were all in on this? Why?”

Yondu held out his hands in a half assed shrug. “When you take things too far, kid, someone’s gotta teach ya to rein it in. Havin’ a laugh’s one thing, talk of cops, and breakin’ and enterin’ — that’s oversteppin’. Try ’n mind yer own business for a while, eh? Try it out.”

Rocket’s expression was morphing from fearful to shocked, settling finally on righteous anger. “You were all in on this? I mean, _look_ — this just proves there's a gang — look at these guys.”

“There’s no gang, Rocket,” Gamora said. “You get so riled up you can’t even tell when the story’s giving you a moral.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

Groot rolled his eyes. “Everything has its limits. Even jokes.”

“‘Specially jokes,” Yondu corrected, then made an ushering gesture towards the door. “We’ll be goin’ now, boys. Rest of y’all — keep up the good work. Quill, _Rocket_.”

By the time the intruders filtered out and the door chimed closed, Gamora had gone to the storage room and retrieved a bag of frozen cherries, holding it up against Peter’s face with a weird sort of pitying smile.

“You guys are _horrible_ ,” Rocket finally managed. “Talk about taking jokes too far.”

Peter spread his arms in a grand gesture. “Valuable life lesson, man.”

“You took a fist to the face to teach me a lesson?”

Peter nodded solemnly. “And I would take a thousand more.”

Rocket kept his cool for another few second, before reaching back and untying his apron. 

“You know what? Yous are gonna manage without me today. I have had _enough_ — ” he paused, stomped on the discarded apron, “ — for one day, and it ain’t even eight.”

“Where are you going?” Drax asked after him, as Rocket struggled to open the door with his angry, twitchy hands.

He grunted. “Either gonna get some ice cream or commit a felony. I’ll decide on the bus.”

Groot went after him, as if encouraging Rocket’s borderline kleptomania was a wise decision. “If you _steal_ the ice cream, it’s two birds with one stone.”

They disappeared out the door, leaving Peter and Gamora with their dripping makeshift ice pack, and Drax with the remaining cinnamon rolls.

After a moment, Drax broke the silence, summing up the morning’s events through a chewy mouthful of pastry.

“You know, Quill, you definitely take after your dad.”

Peter frowned. “My dad? — _Yondu?_ ”

Drax nodded and continued chewing.

Peter tried to argue. “He’s not my — ”

“Yes, he is,” Gamora insisted. “He may as well be.”

 

**Author's Note:**

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